


Recessional

by executrix



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for b7friday, for the prompt "There'll always be an England."</p>
    </blockquote>





	Recessional

**Author's Note:**

> Written for b7friday, for the prompt "There'll always be an England."

_Lest we forget—lest we forget! (Rudyard Kipling)_

The Commandant cautiously opened the cage door—wouldn’t do to let them escape!—and inspected the gladiators. They seemed quite fit, ready to compete after tonight’s feast. 

Then he went back to his quarters, and changed out of his fatigues and into his dress uniform. He insisted that he and all his subordinates dress for dinner. Here in the jungle, so far from Home, it was important to keep up standards. 

The members of the garrison didn’t mind riding out to take a few pot-shots, so there was often fresh meat on the table to supplement their canned stores. Tonight, because it was Federation Day, the usual roast birds were sprinkled with a celebratory shower of Custard Powder. (The swamplike nature of their billet meant that Toad in the Hole appeared at the mess far too often to be served on such a special day.)

After dinner, Lieutenant Colonel Denys Aukwether-Haigh whistled. The faithful native bearer trotted up (his unoiled gears making rather a din), carrying a tray. The uniform he wore was nothing at all before, and rather less than half of that behind, because he was a robot. There were no sentient natives of the planet at at all, just swathes and swathes of swamp and vine, where a few robots hacked away at a nearly mined-out seam of ore. The Lieutenant Colonel and his messmates hoped that they would be recalled Home before the last chunk of ore was mined, and the last robot fell to pieces with no spare parts to be had, or at least that a supply ship would come. 

The tray held four plates, each with a gilded slice of bread; a tin of condensed milk; and a ceremonial tin opener. The robot set down the tray. One of its arms fell off. Inside the metallic shell it was white, clear white plasglas inside. 

Lieutenant Hooper sighed, picked up the arm, and screwed it back on. 

The Lieutenant Colonel announced, “Gentlemen, stand for the Loyal Toast.” With a flourish, he pierced the tin and dribbled condensed milk parsimoniously over each slice. The robot handed the plates around. “The Supreme Commander!” they said, then they sat down again and ate their pudding. 

Now, they were four: Aukwether-Haigh, Captain Walter Edmonston, Lieutenant Gregory Hooper, and Sergeant-Major Lofty Pinnock. Carstairs the Gentleman Ranker had succumbed to Fever during the last rainy season, and now there was a heap of dirt, swarmed with painfully green new-grown vines, that was Forever Dome 6 Northwest. Carstairs would be greatly missed; if anyone else were to die, they would no longer have a fourth for the evening game of bridge. Lofty thought that maybe they could teach Babu to play, or at least to hold the cards as dummy. 

His eyes glittering with excitement, Aukwether-Haigh went to fetch the cage. He set it down, its front edge painstakingly aligned with the neatly painted edge of the grounds. Then he distributed bits of vegetation at the wickets. At last, he raised the gate. There was a whirr of wings, and a chittering that might have been excited.  
The officers sipped at their chota pegs, Lofty downed his beer. 

“Not much seems to be happening,” Captain Edmonston observed. 

“Mustn’t grumble,” Aukwether-Haigh said. “I believe, in the old days, cricket matches could go on for three days.” 

_And I can’t forget/And I can’t forget/And I can’t forget, but I can’t remember what._ (Leonard Cohen)


End file.
